She stares at me. “You re-taped a blocker you already taped.”
“It needed it.”
“It did not need it.”
I make coffee.
She sits on my couch with my cat and argues with someone on her phone about Conference Final predictions — something about the power play that she is completely right about and I am not going to tell her — and I stand in my kitchen listening to her and thinking about the lobby and what I said down there.
I put her cup on the counter at the right temperature.
She reaches for it without looking up.
Neither of us says anything about any of it.
An hour later she’s still there.
Legs up on my couch. Brick across her lap. Her personal notebook open — not the press one.
I’m on my tablet. Game film. Conference Final opponent.
She looks up. “You’re watching film on game day.”
“Conference Final.”
“You watched film this morning.”
“Different film.”
She looks at me over her notebook. “Do you ever just — not watch film.”
“Offseason.”
“And?”
“Different film.”
She shakes her head. Goes back to her notebook.
Two minutes later: “Their left winger telegraphs the backhand.”
I look up.
She’s still looking at her notebook. Writing something. Not looking at the tablet.
“Yeah,” I say.
“And your defensemen keep cheating to the strong side in the second period which is why you’re giving up the back door.”
I look at the tablet. Look at her.
“You’re not watching this,” I say.
“I watched it this morning.” She turns a page. “You’re welcome.”
“You watched my game film.”
“I watch everything.” She looks up then — just for a second, just long enough. “Occupational hazard.”
